


my friend the rose

by weatheredlaw



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, F/M, War, World War II, these two, vague descriptions of war and violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 10:09:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/526127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve Rogers is so very, very tired. ("Don't be sorry," she says. "Just sleep.")</p>
            </blockquote>





	my friend the rose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [restlesslikeme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/restlesslikeme/gifts).



> filled from a prompt over at my tumblr huzzah!

_Our Father in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven._

And every time the pastor passes over Steve's head, he prays, _Not today. Please, God, not today._

 

 

Here it is in another time -- Steve is caught between youth and death, the bite of gunmetal in his hands, the rattling of the machine gun never leaving his bones. He dreams at night about war and wakes up with it in his mouth. He wakes up with blood in his hair and he thinks that he might never get it out. He thinks that this might be his end, might be the last day.

 

 

_Give us this day our daily bread._

The pastor passes over Steve's head, and he prays, _Please, God, let it be today._

 

 

Steve Rogers is so very, very tired.

 

 

Steve Rogers is on leave in Florence, and Bucky is on a mission to get him laid. 

It's embarassing, because Steve's far from a virgin, and Bucky's talking about his dick like it needs to be Christened by a sopping wet, beautiful cunt to make it whole and perfect. Steve takes a good five minutes of this before distracting Bucky with a dame of his own and slipping quietly out of the bar. 

This is the fourth time he's been to Florence, but it doesn't feel much different to him than anywhere else. A kid from Brooklyn, running to war, trapped in one hell and then another. 

It's strange to hear nothing when he's been hearing everything else for so long. The bar echoes down the street, but Steve loses its noise after a while, catching a feral cat cross his path ahead, a man and a woman stumbling drunk down the walk. 

This is Europe at war, and Steve thinks it's unfair for there to be so much peace when outside of this air, there's so much stale, haggard death. 

"I was wondering when you'd show."

She's standing on the front stoop of her house, watching Steve come up the street. He takes his hat off, giving her a sheepish smile, and takes the hand she's held out to him.

"I always find you, Nat."

Natasha doesn't smile, but her eyes are bright as she brings Steve up the stairs to her apartment and sits him down at the table.

This is why Steve loves Florence. Florence is red hair and bowls of pasta and pale skin and flashes of teeth and wet lips. Florence is Natasha, with stories from Moscow and quiet, Russian lullabies. Florence is Natasha pressed against kitchen sink and Steve's hands roaming down her sides as she does the dishes. Bucky always wonders where he goes on leave. Steve's never breathed a word about her. She is his favorite secret.

 

 

They only have a few days When Steve's there. The first time he'd met her, she'd been working at a bakery, and Steve was hungry and stupid of what you could get in the middle of the afternoon in Florence and Natasha had saved him, translating for the baker and pushing a loaf of bread across the counter. Steve manages to find some salami and good cheese later. Natasha brings the wine. He doesn't know how she found him and he's never asked -- he likes to think it was on a whim. That maybe she was going to find another soldier, or maybe a friend. 

And instead, she found Steve.

"You're thinner," she says tonight, reaching out and brushing her thumb over his cheek bones. If his mother could see him, if she were alive, she'd be stuffing his face with meatloaf and potatoes, baked parsnips and boiled eggs. "Is it good?" Steve nods, forgetting himself as he shovels food in his mouth. He's learned not to be embarrassed around Natasha, not to be worried. She smiles and stands, dropping a kiss on his forehead and taking his empty bowl. Steve wipes his mouth and watches her clean it, humming something to herself, something he's come to recognize, but can never remember the name of.

"Thank you," he says, coming to stand behind her and press his lips to the base of her neck.

Natasha turns and murmurs against his lips, "Take me to bed."

Steve obliges.

 

 

There isn't anything quite like Natasha sitting above him, sliding his cock into her wet cunt, pushing herself up by her knees and digging her nails into Steve's chest. It always starts like this, Natasha on top, taking charge, setting the pace. Steve's body _aches_ for this submission, begs for it when she's not there. She fucks herself onto his cock until she comes, until Steve can feel his climax swelling. She stops him, and it kills him. She always knows how to stop him. 

Steve fucks her in the tub the next morning, when she's poured enough hot water to satisfy him. He slides into her, bracing his arms on the metal rim and she takes it quietly, gracefully, murmuring songs against his shoulder as Steve thrusts and thrusts until she draws him out and he comes in the water, slumping against her until she shifts in the water and takes him back to bed. 

"Maybe when it's over, I can come back here." Natasha makes a strange noise over him. "What?"

Natasha asks "What about your mother?" and Steve realizes he's been talking about her all these months like she's still alive. "Oh."

"I'm sorry. I never even think--"

"Don't be sorry," she says quietly. "Just go to sleep."

 

 

When Steve goes, he always leaves something for her. Sometimes it's a necklace, cheap, but endearing. Sometimes it's a dress. Today it's a pair of shoes, black, soft looking heels. 

"I'll take you dancing next time I'm here."

"Do I get to meet the boys?" she asks, and crowds him against the wall of her apartment, kissing his neck and drawing her fingers down the front of his uniform.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, you can meet the boys."

Natasha says, "Come back to me."

Steve says, "Sure thing, miss."

 

 

_And lead us not into temptation._

 

 

The pastor passes over Steve's head and Steve thinks about Natasha's thighs, Natasha's hair, Natasha's voice. 

Steve thinks about Natasha's hands as he pitches forward, scrambling at the dirt, scrambling for purchase, scrambling to survive.

 

 

Florence is so far away.

 

 

And there are no boys to meet.

Steve turns up with a bag on his shoulder and nothing in his hands. Bucky's gone home, told Steve that he would, too, if he knew what was good for him. And Steve wants to believe him.

But Natasha answers the door wearing the necklace and the dress and the shoes and Steve takes her dancing. 

Steve's never really known what was good for him, but he thinks this is as good a place as any to start.

"Don't be sorry," she says later. "Just go to sleep."

 

 

_"A lifetime comes and goes"_  
That's what my friend the rose  
Said only yesterday 


End file.
